Casting…

I have always hated the process of auditioning actors.

During my time in advertising, we would routinely have ‘cattle calls’, and I’d sit in a room while dozens of hopefuls streamed through and attempted to impress me. Anxiety and desperation was palpable in the atmosphere (both from me and the actors), and after several hours of this ridiculous ‘speed-dating’, I would inevitably be more confused, tense and indecisive than I was at the start of the process.

As far as my own work is concerned, I’ve vowed never to use this means for casting actors, as I don’t feel it is healthy for anyone.

I have two approaches; I either try to contact someone whose work I admire (and I’ve been surprised how easy it it to get in touch with almost anyone, if you’re realistic about it), or I will take myself off to the theatre, to see both professional and university/amateur productions, and see who impresses me. I think this is better than having someone do a reading in an audition, which is a high-stress circumstance. Instead you are discreetly watching them perform a role they have rehearsed and feel confident in. A good role will usually put an actor through their paces, too, so you can get a good idea of their range. I will then simply accost the actor and introduce myself.

The only other thing I am concerned with when casting actors is whether or not we have a personal rapport, and can be comfortable around each other, which suggests to me that we might be able to work together. The simplest way to ascertain this is to have a conversation, and see if we trust each other and stimulate each other’s creativity.

What I like about this approach is that it requires me to be more active in the process, putting energy out, hunting and spending time around actors, rather than sitting in passive judgement of them in the loathsome auditioning circus.

A chart.

I feel too many screenwriters and film-makers get hung up on Column 1, at the expense of Column 2. Ideally, I think, there should be a harmony struck between both columns. Column 1 is the immediately gratifying layer of a film, while Column 2 is where the gold (that keeps you coming back for repeated viewings) is buried…

EXTERIOR	INTERIOR
TEXT	SUBTEXT
ACTION	EMOTION
PLOT	CHARACTER
GOAL	NEED
STORY	THEME
IMAGE	SYMBOLISM
WHAT	WHY

“Find the apple in your story…”

I have been searching for this quote by the great Truman Capote, which I heard him utter in a short documentary by the Maysles Brothers called ‘With Love From Truman.’ In the documentary he compared finding the true, natural shape of a story to the way in which an apple is the perfect shape for the ‘job’ it does. I couldn’t find the exact quote, but he says something very similar in an interview in The Paris Review (among other wonderful insights into the craft of writing), which I excerpt below:

INTERVIEWER: How does one arrive at short-story technique?

CAPOTE: Since each story presents its own technical problems, obviously one can’t generalize about them on a two-times-two-equals-four basis. Finding the right form for your story is simply to realize the most natural way of telling the story. The test of whether or not a writer has divined the natural shape of his story is just this: after reading it, can you imagine it differently, or does it silence your imagination and seem to you absolute and final? As an orange is final. As an orange is something nature has made just right.

INTERVIEWER: Are there devices one can use in improving one’s technique?

CAPOTE: Work is the only device I know of. Writing has laws of perspective, of light and shade, just as painting does, or music. If you are born knowing them, fine. If not, learn them. Then rearrange the rules to suit yourself. Even Joyce, our most extreme disregarder, was a superb craftsman; he could write Ulysses because he could write Dubliners.

Race With The Devil: The ‘Musical’.

Proposed poster design... sometimes I revert back to my graphic design roots.

I recently made one of my all-too-rare forays to the theatre, to see a production of ‘Squizzy’, a musical play written by Barry Dickens about 1920s Melbourne gangster Squizzy Taylor. It starred Syd Brisbane, who played a role in my latest short film ‘Keeper’, and was performed by a very small company of actors, who swapped roles with breathtaking rapidity. The music was played by a small, four-piece live band, several of whom also took to the stage to play characters. It was very fluid, the scenes presented as short, impressionistic vignettes, and it was VERY energetic.

I found myself, several days later, reflecting on the fact that my first screenplay, Race With The Devil (my biopic about the troubled life of 50s rocker Gene Vincent), has yet to find a producer, and also musing idly that I would like to one day write a play (my screenwriting is so visual, rather than dialogue based, so it seemed like it would be an interesting challenge). These two thoughts collided in my head and I was suddenly struck by the possibility of adapting Race With The Devil into a stage play. There were a number of reasons I could see for doing this, right off the top of my head; it would be cheaper than getting the film produced; I would finally get to see the work performed by living breathing people, rather than remaining a vision in my head; if it worked (or maybe even travelled), it could potentially draw attention to the screenplay and aid in getting it produced; and, whereas local film funding bodies are focussed on stories that are Australian based, the theatre seems to me to be a much more ‘international’ culture, so it might be easier to get support for a story set in the US and UK.

It seemed perfect; it would be a musical, but at the same time not quite – the songs are an integral, ‘diegetic’ part of the story, which is very, very dark – I imagined the play as a hybrid of a rockabilly gig and Shakespearean tragedy.

The initial adaptation process involved me basically reformatting the script into a stageplay, and altering it from a three act structure into two acts. What struck me was the ease with which it transformed; I hadn’t realised how dialogue-heavy the script was, which of course was advantageous. There were obvious things that were too cinematic, or redundant, so I jettisoned them immediately, then set about reducing the characters and scenes, until I had 2 acts of 30 pages each, with about half a dozen songs in each act. At present, it still feels a bit like a film, as the scenes are often short – but that seemed to work in the case of ‘Squizzy’, so maybe it’ll play okay.

I’ve found a director who is keen to mount the play as a minimalist Fringe show this year, and I’m looking forward to workshopping the script with both him and a company of actors.

I’m feeling very excited about letting it go, and developing into something quite separate from the screenplay; there’s a strong element, as I mentioned before, of Shakespearean tragedy in Gene’s story, and some overt references to ‘Richard III’, which I think could be interesting to explore, maybe fusing the DNA of that play with Gene’s story and making the parallels even more pronounced.

‘The Treatment’ Podcast.

My latest film-related podcasterly addiction is The Treatment, from KCRW in Santa Monica.

Brilliant 1/2 hour interviews with screenwriters, directors and actors, hosted by Elvis Mitchell, whose knowledge of film and intelligence and insights are truly awe-inspiring. HIGHLY recommended.

How to avoid hubris: Method #1

View everything you do as an ‘interesting failure’.

I don’t mean for this to sound negative, defeatist or falsely modest; in fact I think it’s the healthiest possible attitude to have towards your work.

It is also a good way to give yourself permission to finish a project, and move on to the next thing – you will approach the new work having learned valuable lessons from your ‘mistakes’. I use terms like ‘failure’ and ‘mistakes’ in the most positive sense – trial and error is a central part of the artistic process – perhaps even the most important part, because we are always striving for originality, which necessitates journeying into unknown territory, and we are always reaching slightly beyond our grasp as we develop as artists. And we must embrace the possibility that something might not work out perfectly in order to begin the process at all…

I must confess to being a bit of a perfectionist by inclination (and I always strive to do the best work I possibly can), but at some point you must acknowledge the limitations of both your talent and of the work at hand, otherwise you’ll be tinkering forever.

A screenwriter/director I greatly admire, James Gray, said in an interview with Jeff Goldsmith for the Creative Screenwriting Magazine Podcast, that his desire as a film-maker is to ‘fail to the best of his abilities.’ I like his attitude.

Inanimate objects are people, too…

‘Objects’, such as props, locations, clothing, and so forth are characters in your script, too. They should be afforded an arc, beats, contradictions and complexity, in a similar fashion to those you develop for your living characters. Objects also have relationships and allegiances (that can change) with your characters, and they have an inner life and backstory as well.

Top 5 Films Of 2010.

Jennifer Lawrence in 'Winter's Bone.'

1. Winter’s Bone
A perfect film. The stakes could’t be higher, they are marked out clearly within the first few minutes, you are on the side of the vulnerable-yet-determined protagonist from the opening moments, and amid a harrowing, almost biblical story of familial conflict the viewer is treated to insight after insight into a complex social structure that has lost its moral and spiritual centre. A film filled with faces and atmosphere – immersive, respectful, full of truth and nuance and almost unbearably tense. Its final image also acts as a noble rebuttal to the ‘Deliverance’ hillbilly stereotype. Sublime; flawlessly and lovingly crafted.

2. Monsters
A “neo-realist sci-fi film”, with the kind of character development and subtlety entirely absent from most other contemporary monster movies. The guerrilla style is very effective in pushing the special effects off to the periphery, with excellent performances from not only the leads, but also the various locals roped in along the trip. And an awe-inspiring penultimate scene to rival the appearance of the mothership at the end of Close Encounters Of The Third Kind. Did anyone else notice that the story appears to loop around on itself, which makes the ending extremely tragic? My enjoyment of this film was enhanced greatly by attending a Q&A screening with director Gareth Edwards at the wonderful Westgarth Cinema, at which he gave some fascinating insights into the ultra low-budget production, which made the film seem positively radical.

3. Toy Story 3
A perfect conclusion to this trilogy. I was very sceptical about the first Toy Story film, as a lover of traditional animation, but Pixar have (almost) consistently amazed me with their storytelling craft, above all other technological innovations. They are worthy myth-makers for the 21st century, and always have their heart in the right place. Their willingness to entertain dark, existential questions in their films, while never losing sight of their duty to entertain, is commendable. This film, in particular, benefits greatly from the solid screenwriting talents of Michael Arndt (Little Miss Sunshine), and features a couple of well-documented-elsewhere moments of genuine terror, despair and redemptive beauty.

4. Blue Valentine
An agonising, touching and very truthful depiction of love in the ascendant and descendant. Its painfully poignant parallel-chronological structure makes the outcome all the more tragic, giving the viewer a perspective on the characters that they have so evidently lost themselves. Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams are never less than completely authentic and idiosyncratic. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, etc… and of you’ve ever endured one of ‘those’ break-ups, this will ring you like a gong. Close your eyes tightly and feel your way out of the cinema during the appalling end credits, though. Whoever made them should be drowned.

5. The American
This sort of existential thriller is like catnip to me; for further examples see The Conversation, The Parallax View, Point Blank, Get Carter, etc. Anton Corbijn follows up the masterful ‘Control’ with an equally measured, contemplative ‘espionage’ film, an almost Kafkaesque character study. George Clooney is in serious mode here (you can tell because he has a beard – at least at the start of the film) and gives a great, enigmatic, weary performance. Think The Bourne Identity, as directed by Antonioni.

Honourable mention:

Je T’Aime Moi Non Plus (Gainsbourg/Birkin retrospective @ AMCI): Tomboy Jane Birkin falls for gay garbage truck driver Joe Dallesandro, and they spend most of the movie looking for a quiet place to have anal sex, so Jane’s screams will not disturb the neighbours – ah, they don’t write ‘em like that anymore!

The Ghost Writer: Roman Polanski doing what he does best – the darkly comedic thriller – with many pleasing structural and thematic nods to The Tenant and Rosemary’s Baby.

Animal Kingdom: A solidly acted, de-dramatised, anthropological antidote to Underbelly and its sensationalist ilk.

The Social Network: The dream team of Sorkin and Fincher make an epic, mature film about the genesis of the biggest social blight of modern Western society, nested in a classic narrative of hubris, betrayal and revenge.

The Killer Inside Me: The Jim Thompson adaptation his fans have been waiting for; faithful, frighteningly violent, with a stunning, restrained performance from Casey Affleck.

Leave room for the audience…

In my capacity as a sessional screenwriting lecturer, I often read student screenplays that feature an inactive protagonist, who moves through the story passively observing the more interesting, fraught travails of the other characters.

I believe what is happening here is that the writer has inadvertently ‘written the audience’ (or themselves) into the story – they are forgetting to clear a space for the audience to enter into the midst of the drama.

Reading a screenplay where this has occurred is akin to settling down in a cinema to watch a movie, only to have someone very tall sit in the seat directly in front of you, thus obscuring your view of the screen – you have to look around them, your frustration mounting, to see what’s going on.

This tendency, when writing a cinematic story, is just one of many ways in which screenwriters can fail to consider the audience, or even to display contempt for the audience. Another example is the tendency to overload a story with exposition – to spell out every detail, rather than leaving gaps over which the audience must make an imaginative leap.

One more self-imposed rule for writing dialogue…

If you can SEE it, don’t SAY it.

To mention something in dialogue that is clearly visible on screen is a redundancy; something we must always try to avoid as screenwriters. Images and dialogue should always convey separate pieces of information which, when absorbed simultaneously by the audience, allow them to make the connection in their mind.

Lame example (my examples are always lame):

John holds up the whiskey bottle.

JOHN: Want some of this whiskey?

As opposed to:

John holds up the whiskey bottle.

JOHN: Want some?

God, that really was a lame example, but you get the idea…